


Along Came John

by Dlvvanzor, Living_In_a_Fantasy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Break Up, Characters watching Doctor Who, Falling In Love, Love Confessions, M/M, No cheating, Sex, Sherlock Holmes Becoming a Detective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dlvvanzor/pseuds/Dlvvanzor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_In_a_Fantasy/pseuds/Living_In_a_Fantasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are pretty good.  Sherlock has a good job, a nice flat, and he and Victor Trevor have been together for ten years. They never even fight.  They never anything, actually, but things are good.  Sort of.  Then again, maybe things are actually extremely boring and it will take an aborted mugging, a new friend, and a Doctor Who marathon to remind Sherlock that there's significantly more to life than reading the newspaper and cooking dinner.  And then maybe once Sherlock leaves papers and dinners behind, he'll find something better.<br/>(No infidelity)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 Sherlock tossed the newspaper at Victor's head, barely even looking up in order to do so.

 Victor huffed at him, brushing the paper onto the floor and going back to his phone. "Polite."

 He smirked and threw the previous week's paper.  "Stop it."

 "Stop what?"

 "You're doing it again."

 "Doing what?"

 "The thing."  There was no thing.

 "What thing?"

 " _The thing_."

 "Ah right, how silly of me to forget the thing," Victor drawled.

"Correct."

Victor hummed and continued scrolling through his phone.

"You could be worshipping me right now, and you're on your phone," Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"But then I'd not be on my phone," Victor pointed out.

 "That's rather the idea."  He put his feet up onto Victor's lap, just to be irritating.

 He hummed and continued texting.

 Well fine, but it was more comfortable anyway.  He flopped back over the arm of the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

Victor absently patted his leg.

 He rolled his eyes.  "Who are you even texting so much?" he drawled.  "Is it Amber again?"

 "Jealous?" he asked.

 "How could I possibly be jealous?  You'd rather fuck a horse than a woman."

 "You brought her up."

 "In a futile attempt to make conversation, evidently."

 Victor sighed and looked up at Sherlock. "No, I am not texting Amber."

 "Your sister, then?  You're sort of making that face."

 "My sister, my mother, whom she is arguing with, and Drake."

 "With whom she is arguing."  He flopped his head back over.

"My sister and mother are arguing and asking me to choose a side."

"I understand that.  I was correcting your grammar.  Whose side have you chosen?"

 "Both."

 "Who is actually right?"

 "Sister."

 "More of the same, then."

 Victor glanced down as yet another text came in. "Mhm."

 Sherlock knew from a decade of experience that once Victor exchanged more than a few texts, he was lost to him.  Something had to replace the cocaine, Sherlock supposed.  He rolled off the sofa and padded to the kitchen.

 Victor barely noticed.

 Sherlock barely noticed Victor barely noticing, because this was normal.  He fished around in the fridge for a while, eventually coming away with strawberries, to his pleasure.  He came back to the sofa to play the Stare At Victor game.

 Victor answered a text from his sister, a text from Drake, then went back to the web for the thirty seconds it would take for a reply to come in.

 Sherlock watched Victor text and felt his brain cells slowly, slowly die.

 Three texts came in within twenty seconds of each other. He shot off replies.

 Oh, multiple at once.  No matter what Sherlock said right now, Victor wouldn't hear.  So Sherlock played the Talk At Victor game, which was slightly more fun than staring at him.  "Hello."

 His fingers moved over the keyboard.

 "Want to fuck?"

 His sister responded before he got the third text out.

 "I'm going to go get some cocaine, we'll shoot up, and then we'll have sex on the floor."

He thought he heard Sherlock say something. He hummed.

 He said something in French.

 Victor didn't hear him.

 His selective hearing was actually pretty impressive.  Sherlock himself could hear the word 'cocaine' whispered from across a crowded room full of people using jackhammers.

 Soon his father was weighing in on the argument too.

 Sherlock stood again.  He got out his phone.

_-Going out.  SH-_

  _-See you later-_ Victor shot off without thinking.

 Too used to this to even be bothered to roll his eyes, Sherlock got his coat and scarf and left the flat to take a walk and look at London.

* * *

 

John had, once again, been forced to stay late at work. He loved his job, really he did, but he also loved getting off on time. So, seeing as the Tube had tons of delays and cabs would take just as long, he'd opted to walk, taking several shortcuts through alleys. It did take him through a couple less busy areas, but he wasn't particularly concerned. That is, until someone jumped him.

John Watson was not a built, muscled man. He was short, looked scrawny, and could be taken as an easy target. But John knew how to fight, and while the man had come from nowhere and had an element of surprise, he wasn't one to be taken down easily. He ignored the knock to the head from the wall he'd been tackled into, striking back with his elbow and getting the man in the nose.

Sherlock, who had been passing this alley at exactly this moment, stopped to stare at the small man in a lab coat who had just broken someone's nose with his elbow.  Fascinated, it didn't even occur to him to leap into battle until the man with the gushing nose cursed and reached into his back pocket.  Then, Sherlock was behind the man, holding around his neck with one arm and knocking the knife out of his hand with the other.

John turned, eyes immediately finding the knife that had just been sent scattering across the pavement. His eyes lifted towards the pair. He watched as the man who had jumped him struggled, motions slowing as a lack of air made its way to his lungs. He contemplated what would be the most humane way of knocking him out and calling authorities.

 As he choked the assailant, Sherlock took a closer look at the man who had originally been assaulted, but he couldn't see much around the mugger's flailing.

 The man was slowing down more now. "If you strike along that vein, it will knock him out," John informed the other man.

 Sherlock raised an eyebrow and delivered an effective chop to exactly the vein the (doctor?) suggested.  The man went down.

 John looked down at him. "Can call the police to come and deal with him. He should be out long enough for them to arrive." He looked back up at Sherlock. "Thank you. I hadn't realized he had a knife."

 Ignoring this, Sherlock said, interested, "I've never met a gastro-intestinal surgeon with a death wish."

 John blinked. "How do you figure I have a death wish?"

 "You're in this alley in the middle of the night.  To get to this alley you had to have come through several other alleys which are popularly known to be dangerous, even by ordinary people.  This is the shortest way home from work, for you, but a reasonable person would walk the extra ten minutes if they were too irritated with the Underground or too impatient for cabs," he rattled off, eyes not leaving John.

 John continued to watch him. "It was a long day. Why waste those ten minutes going the long way?"

 "So that you don't get jumped by a person with a knife."

 "I'm alive," he said dismissively.

" _Now_ you are," he said, taking a small step closer to get a better look at him.  "You haven't stopped standing like that and the assault has been over for several minutes.  Standing like a soldier.  You were a soldier, quite a while ago, and I didn't see you before your small altercation but I'm willing to bet that if I had you would have looked completely, desperately bored.  But you're not bored now."

 "How did you know I was a soldier?" he asked. "Or my position at the hospital?"

 "Only military men stand like that," he said simply.  "As for your job, I'm afraid I only got as far as surgeon, from the obvious precision of your hands and the callous distinctive of holding a scalpel.  Your exact department, I did have to gather from your nametag.  Which you have left on, because it was a long day and you didn't get to leave when you were supposed to so you were too frustrated to be arsed to remove it."

 "That's...impressive."

 Sherlock blinked.  "Really?"

 John nodded. "You got all that just from looking at me?"

 "Well, yes."

"So, yes. Impressive."

 Sherlock was utterly taken aback.  "No one has ever reacted that way before."

 "Really?" he echoed back.

 "Most people don't like being told things about them by a stranger."

 John shrugged. "Suppose I'm not most people."

 Sherlock cocked his head, fascinated.  "I can tell more about you."

 "Can you?"

 "Yes.  But first, can I borrow your phone?  I'm meant to text my partner if I'm to be out in the middle of the night fending off robbers."

"Do you expect to fend off any more robbers tonight?" John asked, but he obediently held out his phone.

 He half-smirked.  "Two or three more, at least."

_-Alive.  SH-_

He passed the phone back.  "Now.  Where shall I start?"

 John shrugged. "You're the one who does it. You pick."

 "Spin 'round."

 John took a moment to consider how ridiculous the entire situation was. He'd just nearly been mugged, could have been killed, and now he was spinning in an alley while a stranger tried to tell him his life story. He brushed it off and did as he was asked.

 "You were of moderately high rank in the army, but not the absolute highest," Sherlock reported, "judging by your willingness to take orders but your lack of automatic response to them.  You're doing fairly well for yourself, but that wasn't always the case: you're dressed well but your phone is old, reliable more than flashy.  Most doctors go for flashy and spend the money to simply replace it when newer models come out.  You're accustomed to being broke, and more importantly you don't hold luxury in high regard.  I'm sure that made it easier in the desert."  He raised his eyebrows.

 John nodded slowly. "Go on."

"And," Sherlock concluded, "you're single.  You've got a bit of shaving cream on you but no one's told you about it."

 "You got it all right," John said, sounding just a touch awed.

 "I didn't expect to be right about everything," he said, pleased.

 "You got all that from my appearance and a phone," he said. "Did you learn that with...I don't know, Scotland Yard or something?"

Sherlock snorted.  "Scotland Yard," he scoffed.  "Absolutely not.  It's a family trait."

 "Well, they could use someone like you, then," John said. "Might solve more crimes, with observations like that. Not sure how it would stack up as evidence, though."

 "I'm sure they could use the help," he agreed.  He hesitated, but only very briefly.  He held out a hand.  "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

 John took it, shaking firmly. "John Watson."

 After the hand shaking was over, he didn't know what to do.  He wasn't the most social of people but he didn't want John to go.  Not yet.  "Um.  Do you want to see some more?  Of the seeing?"  He wanted to smack himself in the face.

 John's lips quirked up. "What, on other people?"

 He nodded.  "We could find some place that's still open.  A pub, is probably the only thing.  There will be people there."

 John checked the time on his phone. "I have a couple hours," he agreed easily.

 Surprised and pleased, Sherlock perked up.  "Ok!  Then.  Let's do that."

 "Yes, good." He glanced down. "Should call someone about him first, though."

 He looked down at the mugger he had completely and entirely forgotten.  "Oh, yes."

 John pulled out his phone and made the call. "They want me to stay to give a statement," he said after hanging up. "So. Where to?"

"Not interested in giving a statement, then?"

 "Not particularly."

 Sherlock grinned, then gestured with his head.  "This way."

* * *

Sherlock hadn't had that much fun in a very, very long time.  In fact, he was pretty sure that in a span of several hours, he hadn't been bored for a moment.  First the surprise, then the mugging, then John liking his observations, and then an entirely pleasant hour at a pub with chatter that was _interesting_.  John had told him things about himself that he'd not been able to deduce, and much of it didn't line up with his demeanor.  He seemed so mild, but Sherlock could tell he had a temper and suspected strongly that he was impossibly stubborn.  Sherlock had dutifully deduced some of the other patrons, his brilliance being confirmed when one of them overheard and gave him a filthy look.  They had laughed.  Sherlock had laughed, and John had laughed, and they had laughed together.  And, John hadn't checked his phone.  Not even once.

Sherlock returned home after the pub, very slightly tipsy and otherwise simply high on an enjoyable evening.  "Victor!" he called excitedly.

Victor had been in bed, as it was the middle of the night. He groaned at the loudness of his partner and rolled over.

 He went to their room and pounced on him.  "I made a friend!"

 Victor clumsily reached around and patted his head. "Did you share your lunch or something?" he mumbled.

 "No, pints.  But I observed things and he didn't pour water on me!"

 "Buy someone enough drinks."

 "This was after I stopped the mugging but before the drinks."

 "Ah, course."

 "Oh!  Also, I saw a mugging!  And then I attacked the mugger!"

 "Assume alright?"

"If I wasn't alright, I would have started this conversation with, 'Victor, I am bleeding profusely.'"

 "Thought so."

 "Would you have woken up if I had prefaced the conversation that way?" he prodded.

 "Mhm."

 "Really feeling the love, aren't you?"  He rolled off him and then off the bed to change.

 "Tired," he told the bed simply.

 Sherlock sighed and changed, deciding to skip the rest of his routine and instead crawl into bed beside Victor.

 Victor turned towards Sherlock, feeling around for him and dropping a sloppy kiss on his cheek without opening his eyes. "Glad you made a friend."

Sherlock smiled, just a little.  "Doesn't happen a lot."  He took Victor's hand, getting comfortable.

 "Should," he said simply, already starting to fall asleep.

Sherlock smiled just a bit wider, then closed his eyes.  He let the steady breaths of Victor and the small amount of alcohol in his system carry him off.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been an interesting night out. It certainly wasn't what John had been expecting, when he'd left work late. Sherlock was fun to be around. His deductions were impressive, and he was just funny. Interesting. Different. Certainly not boring. They'd exchanged numbers at the pub and had planned to meet up again that week. Actually, Sherlock had texted him asking if he'd be free that day, and John said yes just a bit too eagerly. It promised to take what was a rather dull day and make it at least a bit more interesting.

Sherlock hadn't made a new friend in ten years, and it was exciting.  Although it was fast, John hadn't seemed to mind his personality the previous night, so Sherlock went ahead and asked to meet after work.  He didn't exactly know what men did when they weren't planning on fucking later, so he simply suggested a pub again.

Work dragged on, but finally he was done. He stopped home to change and left to meet Sherlock at the specified location.

Sherlock got there early, then lingered out of sight of the building until he felt it was an appropriate time to arrive.  He went in and found John at a table.

"John," he said cheerfully, sitting down across from him.  "Slow day, then?"

John smiled back at him. "Not nearly as hectic."

 He hummed.  "But slow is boring.  Hectic is at least interesting."

 "Boring, but done on time."

 "Fair enough."  He leaned back in his seat after flagging down someone who would bring him something to have in his hands, namely a beverage.

"And how was your day, then?"

 He shrugged.  "Fine.  Worked, went home.  Read a newspaper.  Came here."

"Not terribly exciting, then."

"Never is."  He took a sip.

 John did too. "Could try and find some robbers. Wander some alleys in a few hours. Might be interesting."

 "We could."  He wasn't entirely joking.

 "Let's see how we feel in a couple hours." A small part of him wasn't kidding.

 "I don't think drinking is going to make us _less_ likely to want to track down criminals," he pointed, taking a rather large sip that was of course just a coincidence.

 "But, we might be less bored," he pointed out.

 "Alcoholism as a coping mechanism.  You are an excellent role model."

"Suppose it runs in the family?"

 Sherlock hadn't turned himself on, so he didn't get that right away.  "Hm?"

 "Nothing." He took another sip. A pause, during which he considered that saying this was admitting a lot to someone he'd just met. "Just that it seems to work for my family."

_Oooh_.  "Well," Sherlock said carefully, "it _is_ a proven method."

 "That it is."

 "Next time we'll go somewhere other than a pub," he said firmly.  He had a thought.  "We could go to mine.  Dinner, meet Victor.  He was stunned that I'd made a friend."

 "That's not a very nice reaction."

 "No, not really, but seeing as it's the first time since meeting him ten years ago, valid."

 John took another sip. "Dinner is always good."

 "He can cook," Sherlock informed him.  "I cannot."  He smiled.  Just because he felt like smiling.

 John smiled too. "Well if he can cook, I'm sold."

"I have a brother," Sherlock announced at random.

 "Do you?" he asked. "Does he have your skill set?"

 "Better.  Luckily he's too lazy to make me look stupid."

 John chuckled. "Well that's good."

 "You'll probably run into him soon.  He likes to kidnap people briefly."  He took a sip.

 "That's slightly alarming." Though, interesting.

"He'll just ask you some strange, vague questions that have no correct answer."  He waved this away.  "You'll be in and out in twenty minutes."

 "Thanks for the heads up."

 "To be perfectly honest.  He'll probably ask you if you deal drugs."

 John blinked. "Why?"

 "He occasionally hallucinates that he's my father," he replied flatly.

 "Okay?" he said slowly.

 "And I used to do cocaine," he added.  "Victor too.  For a few years in University.  Obviously this was a long time ago but Mycroft never really let go of it."

 "Ah," he said, digesting this. "But you've stopped?"

 "Oh yes.  This was twelve years ago."

 He certainly seemed functioning. "Well that's good."

Good, John had taken that well.  It seemed like an important thing to edge into the conversation with a doctor who had alcoholic family members.

 "I have a sister," John said, as they seemed to be sharing now.

 He looked at him over his pint.  "She's an alcoholic?"

 "She is."

 "What's she called?"

 "Harry."

"A lesbian alcoholic?  How dramatic."

 "How could you possibly know she's a lesbian?"

 He raised an eyebrow.  "How many heterosexual women call themselves 'Harry'?"

 "Stereotyping."

 "Effectively," he added.

 He couldn't argue with that.

"And," Sherlock continued, "it was more than just her name being Harry.  Possibly I wouldn't have been so sure about my conclusion except that you're obviously at ease with homosexuals."  He shrugged.  "So you have experience with them.  Sister calling herself Harry?  Safe bet that it's her."

 "Dad gave her a hard time, but I was never bothered."

 He gestured at him with his mug.

 "Hm?"

 "That was a 'there you go' motion."

 "Ah, of course." He checked his mug. "Another round?"

 "Hm..."  He looked at his own.  "Talk of alcoholic lesbians has put me off the drinking, a bit.  The park?  Maybe a cafe?"

 "Either work."

 "There's this place right across the street, excellent tea."

John stood. "Sounds good."

* * *

 

 Sherlock returned home that night before Victor was in bed.  Yet again, however, he pounced on him to report his day.

Victor let out a groan as the weight of his partner dropped on him heavily.

 He rested his forearms on Victor's shoulders as he sat on him, facing him.  "We got coffee.  And his sister is an alcoholic lesbian.  And he's coming over for dinner tomorrow."

"And who is cooking this dinner?" Victor asked.

 Sherlock's face suddenly went innocent.  "I told him how good of a cook you are.  Went on and on about it, gushed and everything..."

"Mhm," he said, unconvinced.

"So I was hoping you'd cook."

"Could have asked first," he grumbled.

 He nudged him with his nose.  "Victor, will you please apply your miraculous cooking skills to an easy dinner tomorrow?"

 He sighed. "Yes, fine."

 "I'd do it, but we both know..."

 "Yes, yes, you're not to be trusted with anything more difficult than toast."

 "Toast?" he asked, pretending to be horrified.

 Victor rolled his eyes.

 "Thank you," he said sweetly.  "I'll even do the shopping."

 "You better."

Sherlock got off of him, picked up Victor's phone where it had fallen, and put it in his hand.  He walked to their bedroom.

 Victor checked his messages, typed a quick response, and went back to the telly.

* * *

 

 Sherlock did the shopping, and Victor was cooking, and Sherlock was excited.  Victor rolled his eyes and complained, but he was amused by Sherlock's enthusiasm. He'd not seen him so animated in a long time.

The bell rang, then, and Sherlock bolted to the door, throwing it open to grin at John.  "Hello!"

 "Hello," John said, smiling back.

"Come, comecomeocome."  He seized the front of his shirt and dragged him into the kitchen where Victor was.  "Both of you, this is the other!"

John was still smiling as he was dragged in front of Victor. "Hello," he said, holding out a hand.

Victor shot Sherlock an amused expression and shook it.

 "Say hello, Victor," Sherlock scolded, already pointing John at a seat and starting up tea.

 "Hello, John," Victor said obediently, going back to the stove as John sat.

 Sherlock was far too happy to notice how weird he was being.  "How do you take it?" he asked John as if this were the most important question in the world.  Though, they were British, so maybe it was.

"Milk, no sugar."

 Sherlock made it that way and presented it shortly with a firm nod.  "Tea."

 "Thank you," he said, taking the offered cup.

 He came over to Victor and peeked over his shoulder.  "What is it?"

 Victor gave him a Look. "It's chicken, Sherlock."

 "Just asking," he complained mildly.

 He went to the table and sat down at it, wondering what to do.

 Victor went back to cooking.

 John happily sipped at his tea.

 Sherlock was so, so awkward.  He fidgeted in the silence.

 "Smells good," John commented into the silence.

"Thank you."

Victor was nearly done, and soon enough dinner was being served. There was the general chatter about how good everything looked then some silence. As his partner was socially crippled and John was the new guy, Victor decided to start the conversation. "So John, are you seeing anyone?"

John swallowed his chicken, shaking his head slightly. "No, no one at the moment."

 Sherlock was pleased that he could have answered that question.  He smiled happily at his chicken.

"What do you do? Sherlock didn't mention where you work."

 Victor gave a vague description and went back to eating.

"He went to school for physics," Sherlock added, attempting to contribute.

 "Bold subject choice," John said. "Never quite mastered it myself."

 Victor gave a general smile to the group and continued eating.

"Neither I.  He recited almost every lecture to me but I never understood it."  He looked at Victor for approval of his conversation-making attempt.

 Victor nodded in agreement.

Sherlock ate his chicken.

 "So, how long have you two been together?" John asked.

"Nine years," Victor said, spearing another piece of chicken.

 "Ten years," Sherlock said at the same time.  He turned to blink at Victor.

Victor looked at him. "Has it been? Really?"

 John sat there awkwardly.

 "2003," Sherlock said a bit uncomfortably.

"I don't remember doing anything special for the tenth year..."

 "Cardiff."

 Victor blinked. "Huh."

 Sherlock took a strangely slow sip of water.  "So yes, ten years."

"Long time," John broke in, to try and ease the tension in the air.

"Yes, it is," Sherlock said.

 "Not that long," Victor said at the same time.

 Sherlock sighed internally.

"In the grand scheme of things," Victor said as the silence hung on. "Considering the average human life span is 80 years."

"And of course, time spent with me simply flies by," Sherlock droned.

"Seems to, doesn't it?"

 Slightly mollified, Sherlock changed the subject.  "What made you choose gastroenterology, John?"

"It was just interesting to me," he said, shrugging.

 "Intestines are interesting," Sherlock agreed.  "Do you know, I once did a study on chyme?"

"Did you?"

 "I exposed chyme taken from different sections of the intestine to various chemicals and studied the reactions."

"I didn't know you were interested in things like that."

 "Mm.  I've studied anatomy and physiology extensively."

Victor continued having no part of the conversation.

"In school?" John asked him.

 Sherlock didn't notice Victor's silence.  "In school, and after.  It's how I knew exactly what vein you meant, when you were extremely vague."

"To be fair, it was a somewhat stressful situation."

 "Aren't you a surgeon?" he teased.

"Bit different," John said.

 "Suppose your patients don't generally leap at _you_ with the knife."

"Typically not."

 "Typically?" he said, suddenly interested.  "So it's happened, then?"

"Well," John said, shrugging. "Once. And it was just a pocket knife."

 Sherlock grinned at him.  "That's brilliant.  Did you break his nose?"

"No, I just got the knife away from him and held him down."

 "You are to be congratulated for your bedside manner," he said mock-seriously.

John smiled. "I try."

 They ate, and chatted, and Sherlock had a nice time.  Victor was very quiet, but he was often quiet so Sherlock didn't worry too much.  Eventually, John said he had to leave, so Sherlock politely showed him out.  Victor didn't bother following the pair to the door.

 Sherlock returned to him shortly, looking at him expectantly, a bit anxiously.

Victor looked up at him. "What?"

 "Well?"

"Well what?"

 "Do you like him?  Loathe him?  Love him so much you want to run off with him and have his babies?"

"He's fine."

 He shouldn't be disappointed by Victor's lack of enthusiasm.  It was about as excited as he ever got about anything.  "Well, that's good."

Victor nodded.

 Sherlock lingered near him.

Victor continued to sit there.

 Sherlock sat down next to him.

Victor glanced at him.

 Sherlock very blatantly crowded him, dropping his voice.  "Thanks for dinner..."

"Well, you did insist."

 "I only asked.  It was a bother but you were generous."  He pressed in closer and ran his nose along Victor's temple.

"As if you'd let me say no."

 Most of the time, Sherlock didn't like when Victor talked.  He delicately tilted his head towards him with one finger, and kissed him.

Victor went along with it, kissing him back.

 "Occasionally, I can be generous too," he suggested softly, running a hand down Victor's chest.

"Oh?" he asked, a trace more interest coloring his voice.

 "Mhm."  He let his hand drift all the way down.

"I did cook."

 "Chicken," Sherlock agreed.  "And, it was excellent."

Victor smiled a bit.

"You," he said, leaning in to kiss him again, "are an _excellent_ cook."

Victor made some sort of agreeable hum against Sherlock's lips.

 In response, Sherlock deepened the kiss, and eventually he was very generous.


	3. Chapter 3

About a week later, during lunch, John called Sherlock.

 It wasn't the first time John had called him, but it seemed much more familiar than text and Sherlock still got excited by it.  "Hello?"

"Hey, Sherlock," John said cheerfully.

 "Hello!  Lunch, or out obscenely early?"

"Just lunch, sadly," John said, leaning back in his chair.

 "Surprised.  You sound happy.  A good lunch, then?"

"It's been good. Good day, really."

 "Good."  Sherlock realized that he was about to accidentally blow up the building and quickly turned the flame off of what he was doing.  His boss was lenient.  Not _that_ lenient.

"So, I'm calling because I had a thought."

 "Is that a novel sensation for you?"

"Funny."

 He grinned.  "Thank you."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, last time I saw you, you told me you've never seen Doctor Who."

 "That's a memory, not a thought."

John huffed at him over the phone. "You know, it's upsetting that I can't be with you so you can see me rolling my eyes."

 "Dear John, I don't need to be in your presence to know that you're rolling your eyes."

"So you know I've been rolling them for this entire conversation."

 "Of course I do."

"Anyway," he said, glancing at the clock, "because you've somehow lived in England your whole life and haven't seen it, I thought it might be time to fix that."

 "I lived in France for four years, I'll have you know."

"Do you want to come over and watch it or not?"

 "Yes."

"When?" he asked, flicking a paperclip off his desk.

Sherlock flicked a paperclip off his desk.  "I get off at six."

"I get off at five. My place?"

 "See you there.  Shall I bring anything?"  He could be polite at times.

John considered this. "If you'd like. I have some food and stuff, though."

 "Well then, I will bring something.  And I deduce that it will be something you'll like."

"Oh?"

 "Mhm."

"Well then I look forward to it."

 From John's tone, Sherlock could tell that his break was ending.  "Two minutes left, and you've neglected your paperwork.  Goodbye."

John smiled. "See you tonight."

 He smiled too, and rang off.

* * *

 

A few hours later, John was home, awaiting Sherlock. He had the kettle on, so it would be ready for tea soon, and the place looked nice enough... He figured they could order in, for dinner.

 Sherlock knocked.  John immediately went to the door to let him in. "Hi," he said.

 "Hi."  He held up a large bag of caramel corn, then raised an eyebrow.

John's smile widened. "How did you know?"

 "I'm a genius."

"Clearly." He stood aside.

 He entered, observing everything he passed and to his pleasure, learning almost nothing.  He found the sofa and put the caramel corn on it triumphantly.

"Tea?"

 He nodded.  Then he looked at his hands.  "Um, after I wash.  I was working with... well."

"Sure." John went to make the tea, already knowing how Sherlock took it.

 He went to wash his hands, peeking through John's things in there as well, and returned shortly.

John handed him a mug. "I figured we could order in?"

 He accepted it and nodded.  "What's your favorite?"

"A Chinese place a few blocks down."

 "I love Chinese, almost never have it," he said enthusiastically.

"Well, then we'll order it tonight," John said cheerfully.

 "Takeaway," he agreed cheerfully.  "It must be five years since I've had takeaway.  Victor went through a health-food craze.  It's inconvenient."

"Can have some when you're out on your own," John suggested.

 "I am, aren't I?"

"Well I meant besides when you come to my flat." He moved towards the sitting room. "Order now or later?"

 Exactly.  It was the only time he ever really went out.  "Now, I suppose."  He followed him.

John pulled out his mobile. "Do you want a menu? I have one somewhere."

 "No.  Sweet and sour chicken."

John placed an order for them then turned to look at Sherlock seriously. "So. It is time."

 Briefly, absurdly, Sherlock thought John was about to jump him.  Then he figured out he was talking about Doctor Who.  He made his face equally serious.  "I am ready for assimilation, Doctor."

John nodded. "Alright, then I will put the first disk in."

 "Which Doctor is that?" he asked, showing off the slight knowledge he did have.

"Nine."

 He settled himself facing the television and applied all of his attention to the screen.  This was important to John, so he was going to follow it.

John sat beside him and hit play.

Sherlock was in love within twenty minutes.  He leaned back in the sofa, stunned, when the episode ended.  He stared.

John turned to look at him. "What did you think?"

 He noticed that the food had come and he hadn't even realized it.  He turned slowly to look at John.  "Tell me you have more."

John grinned. "That good?"

 He nodded, enthusiasm building.  "The Doctor!" he declared.  "And... the rubbish bin that ate the stupid boyfriend!  Living plastic!  The shoddy graphics!  Rose's mother!"

"Mickey's not bad," John said, still grinning. "So, more then?"

 He nodded multiple times.

 Sherlock loved it.  They watched multiple episodes, at Sherlock's insistence, and he laughed at the jokes, misted up at the emotional scenes, and was appropriately somber when the Dalek told the Doctor he'd make a good Dalek.  After the first few minutes, it wasn't even about pleasing John anymore.  He truly just enjoyed it.  And got excited about it.  And John didn't think it was amusing when he got excited.

 "That," he said, leaning back against the sofa when they got through the last episode they'd be watching for the night, "was amazing."  He paused, just a little.  "What would you give to go with him?"

"With the Doctor?" John asked. "Certainly my job."

 "Certainly my job," he echoed.  "To have something actually _happen_.  Ever."

"I know," John said, voice rising slightly in excitement. "I mean, what's so different about anyone and Rose? Get up, work, sleep, repeat. Dull."

 "Don't forget the eating.  We do a lot of eating."

"That too. But The Doctor. Something exciting."

 " _Everything_ exciting.  Ever.  And the only price is.  Well, everything."

"Might be worth it."

 "It would be worth it beyond a shadow of a doubt."

John nodded. "Easily."

 "Easily."

They were tense and excited and staring at each other for several long moments.  Then John looked at the clock and sighed regretfully. "I should probably go to bed."

 "Oh.  I'm, I'm sorry."  He stood hastily.  He nodded.  "Alright.  See you later."

"No it's fine." John stood too. "Nothing to apologize for."

 He didn't mean to, but he lingered at the door.  "So, we can do this again possibly?  I'd like to see the rest."

"Yes. Would be fun." John nodded.

 John was simple and sincere.  When he said things, Sherlock knew he meant them.  He took his leave of him, and headed home.

* * *

 

He found Victor getting ready for bed, and joined him.

"Hello," he said when he'd noticed Sherlock had come back.

 "Hello."  He started to change.  "Have you ever seen Doctor Who?"

He made a face. "Can't say that I have."

 "I watched it today," he said, following Victor to the bathroom so he could brush his teeth as well.

"Did you?"

 "It was very..." he struggled for the word.  "Noble.  It's very noble."

"Noble?" he asked.

 "The main character is good.  Unrelentingly, exhaustingly good.  And he doesn't even seem to want to be."  He rinsed off his brush, not looking away from it.  "It's about there being something better."

"Better than what?" Victor put his toothbrush back.

 He absently thumbed a smear of toothpaste off of the side of Victor's mouth.  "Everything."

Victor glanced at him. "Ok..."

 He kissed his cheek, said goodnight, then went to bed.

Victor followed not long after.

* * *

 

 The next few weeks were less boring than his life usually was, and Sherlock could easily pinpoint the cause: Doctor Who with John.  He wouldn't say that he went over obscenely often, but it was at least once a week, usually twice.  It was fun.  John had a light in his eyes that Sherlock wasn't used to, _life_ or something, and it was compelling to be around him, and even the non-Doctor Who nights were better.  They would text, about Doctor Who or something important or nothing at all.  John was always excited, or concerned, or interested in what Sherlock was telling him, and Sherlock found himself interested in John's daily anecdotes, as well.  Sherlock had never had a friend before, not really-- even Victor had gone from stranger to someone to fuck to lover, without 'friend' anywhere between.

It was not a Doctor Who night, tonight, and he was sitting on the floor of the sitting room, leaning against a chair.

Victor was on the sofa, alternating between his phone and the daily paper.

 Sherlock looked at him.

Victor didn't notice.

 Sherlock looked, really looked.  Victor was attractive, there was no denying that.  And he was so, so familiar.  The small crease between his eyebrows when he looked at his phone.  The way his hair shifted when he moved.  The set of his lips, or the small frown when he focused.  And, long gone, the way his eyes got bluer when he was high. 

They'd been together for ages.  No one in the world knew his idiosyncrasies and his habits better than Victor, and Sherlock knew with 100% certainty that he could win a trivia contest about Victor, as well.  But.  He never laughed anymore.  Sherlock hadn't heard him laugh in months.  And he remembered, before the decade together, before the drugs, his laugh was the thing he'd fallen in love with.

"You're on your phone," Sherlock said, emotionless.

Victor grunted.

 "You're on your phone."

He hummed.

 "Look at me."

He didn't.

 "Look at me!"

Victor blinked and looked up. Sherlock didn't yell. "What's wrong?"

 Sherlock looked at him.

"What?"

 He just kept looking at him, straight in the eyes.  Another text would come in eventually, and he had to know.  He had to know if Victor would keep looking at him.

"Sherlock, _what_?" Twenty seconds later, Sherlock hadn't said a word. He rolled his eyes, and his phone went off. He glanced down at the screen.

Sherlock leapt to his feet.  He opened his mouth, but at first nothing came out.

Victor looked up at that. "What?"

 "I-"  Full stop.  His voice was cracking but his eyes were dry.  "I..."

" _What?_ "

 "I... hate you."  He stared at him, helpless.

Victor blinked at him. "You what?"

 He shrugged, honestly feeling lightheaded, eyes not leaving Victor's.  "I hate you.  And you hate me."

"I don't hate you," Victor said.

 "Then name one thing about me that you love.  Really love.  That you're wild about."

Victor just looked at him for a while. "I just do."

 "You used to laugh," he said.  "You used to laugh _all the time_.  God, it was beautiful.  But you don't laugh anymore.  I don't make you laugh anymore."

Victor frowned, not sure what to say to that.

 Sherlock crossed to him, took his face, kissed him.

Victor accepted it easily.

 He released him, straightened up.  "I'm leaving you," he said softly and evenly.  He gestured behind him.  "It's yours.  The flat and everything in it."  He ran his hands through Victor's hair, a little more jerkily than he intended to.  "Goodbye."  He let go and backed up a few steps.

Victor stood. "You're leaving."

 His mouth worked for a while before he said, "Yeah."

Victor was frowning. He'd been with Sherlock for ni-ten years. While it wasn't long in terms of a lifespan, it was enough time to be comfortable. He'd not foreseen this.

"Why?" he asked eventually.

Sherlock caught his hand, turned it over to kiss his palm.  "Because, my love," he said, squeezing then letting his hand fall from between his fingers, "you want me because I'm comfortable.  And there has got to be something better."

Victor was still frowning. Sure, they'd drifted, but breaking up hadn't ever been something he considered. "I've upset you."

 Sherlock laughed on accident.  "Does this sound like any of the seven times we broke up in University because you upset me?"

"I don't understand."

 "We're not the same people as we were," Sherlock said, backing up a bit so he wouldn't lose his resolve.  Not that he really thought he would.  "This.  You, now.  You never get excited about anything.  You don't _want_ anything.  You dream of nothing at all.  You'd be perfectly content to live out the rest of your eighty year average life span doing exactly this.  Every day."

"What's so bad about that?" Victor asked. "People work so they can get comfortable like this."

 "There's nothing wrong with it," he said.  "But I'd rather be dead."

"That's fairly extreme."

 "No, but see, it's not."  He looked at him earnestly.  "It's really not, and the fact that that announcement doesn't ring true for you somewhere inside is why I can't take you with me."

Victor just watched him steadily for several minutes, silently. They were different than they'd been back at Uni, Sherlock was right. They _had_ changed, and, if he really focused, really did think back on it, he could see that Sherlock wasn't happy. And really, the thought of Sherlock leaving him wasn't pleasing, but he wasn't exactly alarmed by it either. "You're really leaving."

 His lips twitched down involuntarily as he gazed at the familiar face.  "It... appears that way."

"I didn't mean to make you unhappy," he said honestly.

 "I know," he said immediately, reaching out for him again.  "And I didn't mean to stop making you happy, either."

Victor took his hands. "I'm sorry."

 "Me too."  He kissed him for the last time.  He backed up, took his wallet off the table, patted his pocket to make sure he had his phone, and went to the door.  "Goodbye, Victor."

"You're sure you don't want the flat?"  Victor asked him. "Or...anything? You'll at least come back to get your things."

 He shook his head.  "I don't want to be comfortable," he said simply.  And with one last look at Victor, he closed the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

For a long time, Sherlock stood on the front step, stunned by what he'd just done.  He hadn't known even two hours ago that it was going to happen.  He'd just left Victor.  He'd _left Victor_.  And he didn't regret it.  It was staggering, but he didn't regret it.  He started walking, not really knowing where his feet would take him.  And that was the thing, wasn't it?  He was free.  He didn't _have_ to go anywhere.  He didn't have to text his partner if he was going to be out all night fending off three or four robbers.  He had money, but no possessions.  None at all. 

And he'd left Victor.

He came to a stop, then looked up at where he was.  He blinked, then he rang the doorbell.

John had been home after a long day, just reading. When his bell rang, he looked up. He'd not expected company, and no one had texted him. He stood and went to the door.

 Sherlock almost walked away, but he didn't want to.  So he didn't.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

 For the second time in two hours, Sherlock opened his mouth but only a croak came out.  "I-"  Then his face crumpled and he covered it with his hands.

"What's wrong?" John asked immediately, stepping towards him. John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock? What's happened?"

 He was crying too hard to say anything.

John gently led him inside and closed the door behind them before walking Sherlock to the sofa. "Here, sit down."

 He sat more inelegantly than he'd ever done in his life.  John left to grab tissues and a glass of water then came back, depositing them on the coffee table and sitting beside him.

 He didn't touch them.  It was significantly beyond tissues and water.

John hesitated then put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, not knowing what to say.  It registered, but barely.  He sat and he sobbed, and sobbed, and when it finally died down to just hiccups and tears, he looked up to find John looking at him.

John squeezed his shoulder.

 Sherlock looked down when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw John's pocket light up.  He looked back up at John.  He was still looking at him.

Sherlock seemed calmer. "What happened?" John asked, not wanting to push but wanting to figure out a way to help.

 "I left Victor."  Saying it out loud to another person brought on a fresh wave of tears, but he didn't look away from John.

"Really?" he asked, eyes still on Sherlock. "I'm.  Sorry."

Sherlock folded his hands and looked at them.

"Did you leave the flat too?"

 He looked back up.  "I left everything."

John nodded slowly. "You're not going to go back and get your things?"

 "No."

"Right.  Okay." He squeezed again. "Well, you can stay here."

 "I- thank you."  That hadn't been his intention, but it would have occurred to him if he'd thought of it, because they were friends and Sherlock would have happily done the same for him.

"Of course."

 He sat, quiet.

"Can I do something?"

 "No."

"Okay."

 He continued to sit.

"You can have my room," he offered.

 "I'm not going to sleep.  Might as well be out here."

"You're sure?"

 He nodded.

"Here." He handed Sherlock the water. "You'll feel better."

 He took it but didn't drink.  "John?"

"Yes?"

 "Did you know you have a text?"

"Doesn't matter," he dismissed. "Sherlock. The water."

 Sherlock started to cry again.

This alarmed John. "I just meant, after all that...well you need to drink something. You don't have to..."

He shook his head and drank the water.

John watched him worriedly.

He put the cup down.

"Did you want me to stay? Or... go?"

 "Stay.  Unless you have things to do."

"No, I can stay."

 "Okay."

John continued to sit there, watching Sherlock.

 Sherlock wondered briefly if he was going to burst into tears every time John looked at him, or if that was just a "today" thing.

He wasn't sure if it was better to leave Sherlock alone and just stay in the room, or try and talk to him.

 Sherlock sat quietly.  He wiped away the newest of the tears and decided there would be no more of them.  Not over _this_ Victor, the lifeless one who was nothing like the one Sherlock had loved.  "I'm done," he reported.

"Done with what?"

 "The crying."

"Okay."

 He nodded, firmly.  "Because, I did the right thing."

John nodded too.

 "You think so?"

John hesitated. "I think...you seemed more invested. Than he did."

 He turned this over in his head.  "I wasn't always," he said finally.  "You've no idea how many times he chased me down."

"People change."

 "And sometimes they become horrifyingly boring."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

 He folded his hands the other way.  He looked up suddenly.  "Do you have strawberries?"

"I...don't know?"

 "I like strawberries," he said quietly, folding his hands back the original way.

"Right. Okay." He stood. "I'll be back." Without another word he grabbed his wallet, and keys, and left.

Sherlock, surprised, watched him go.  If there weren't a million other feelings roiling around inside him because of what he'd done, he might have noticed that he felt just a little bit warm.

* * *

 

Several days had passed, and Sherlock seemed to be doing better. John tried to help. He'd come back with two quarts of strawberries, strawberry jam, strawberry ice cream, and strawberry syrup. That had at least got a small smile out of Sherlock. To be honest, he'd not really liked the way Victor treated him so it was probably good that Sherlock had got away. Even so ten years was a long time and a lot to recover from.

 Victor didn't call, didn't text, and if Sherlock hadn't already been certain that this was also better for Victor, he would have been at that.  Slowly, over the course of several days, Sherlock's freedom sank into his head.  He kept going to his job, kept doing the eating and sleeping, but it was different somehow.  Now, he felt like he could change everything if he wanted to.  And he sort of had an idea as to how.

So, as he was sitting next to John and eating Thai food (so much takeout!) one day, he said, "Presumably you remember the time you were nearly mugged."

John stuffed some noodles into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "I vaguely recall it, yes."

 Sherlock chuckled.  "Well, that was fun."

John's lips turned up a bit. "It was certainly interesting."

 Sherlock put down his carton.  "So, I was thinking.  Why can't I do that?"

"Attack muggers?"

 "Yes!  Well, no.  Not exactly."  He nodded.

"Well, what?"

 "I could be a detective."

John considered this. "Maybe. Like I said, those observations would be good for that sort of thing."

 "Right!"  He nodded several times.  "But, I don't want to be in the police.  So, I could be a sort of.  Private detective."

"Would be interesting."

 "And, I like my current job.  So I could keep it until I discovered if I was any good at detective...ing.  And then maybe I would eventually have enough clients where it could be my real job."

John nodded. "It could be good."

 He felt excitement bubbling up.

"You could make a website," John suggested. "Might get you noticed."

 This was the part where his excitement usually got crushed by the person he was talking to.  But John was suggesting ideas.  "Yes, good!"

"Could combine it with a blog. It's the way of the internet now."

 "The way of the internet?" he giggled, high on the rare, uncrushed feeling.

John huffed and nudged him. "I'm just saying, people love their electronics."

 Sherlock suddenly got quiet.  He looked at John, cocked his head just a bit.  "You said you always wanted to be a writer."

John shrugged. "Well, it interests me. I don't know how good I am at it."

 "You could come with me.  On cases, as long as they don't interfere with your job.  You're a doctor, you were in the army.  In theory the murders and things wouldn't bother you.  You could blog."

"What, for you?"

 He gestured excitedly.  " _With_ me.  You could come with me, the letters after your name give you credibility, and you know lots of things I don't know.  But I can do the deducing.  And then you can blog.  You could write for an audience and see if you like it or if you're any good at it."

John nodded slowly. "If we could do it when I wasn't working, it could be worth a try."

 "We'll do it weekends!"  In his excitement, he took hold of John's upper arm and shook him a bit.  "Weekend detectives!"

John was smiling at him, simply glad to see Sherlock excited about something again. "Weekend detectives," he agreed.

 Sherlock leapt up.  "I need to go to the library!"

"You've not finished dinner."

 "I need to study!"

"Fine, fine, go."

 "Study _things_!" he announced, and dashed out the door.

John smiled after him and went back to his dinner.


	5. Chapter 5

They had actually got a case. Someone had wanted them to solve a crime for them. John hadn't seen Sherlock so excited in...ages. Maybe ever. And Sherlock had been brilliant. So clever. How he'd solved it all John would never understand.

 They returned to John's flat, and Sherlock was bouncing off the walls, feverishly repeating the details of the case and how he'd solved it and how John had helped and how they'd gotten _paid_ and how this was the best thing ever.  John laughed and caught Sherlock's arms to slow him down. "You were brilliant," he said, grinning. "Really, Sherlock. That was great."

 He slowed a bit and spun to grin at John.  "They said they'd tell other people!"

"I remember."

 Bursting with joy, he hauled John in and hugged him tight, dancing around as he did.

John hugged him back, glad that Sherlock was so happy, and pulled away. "Should start on that first blog entry then, should I?"

 He nodded with enthusiasm, following him to his laptop.

"Mind you, I don't know what I'm doing."  John opened up his laptop, waiting as it whirred to life.  "I dated this guy, Richard, always said I was a terrible writer so I never tried anything with it."

WaitwaitwaitwaitWAITwait.  Wait.  _Wait._ Sherlock stared at the back of his head.  His... apparently bisexual head?  Fucking bisexuals, always so tricky...  "I'm sure he was wrong," Sherlock said as smoothly as possible.

It was smoothly enough.  "He was a dick," John said, nodding. "Fucking, _useless_..." he grumbled at his laptop as he waited for it to turn on.

 Sherlock cleared his throat as quietly as he could.  "Well, it seems appropriate that a man called Richard is a dick."

John chuckled. "Suppose so. He was horrid."

 Sherlock frowned, distracted briefly from his shock by the thought that someone had treated John poorly.  "What did he do?"

"Oh, just..." He waved a hand in some meaningless gesture, eyes still on his laptop. "He didn't want people to know we were dating. And he pretty much just wanted me around for sex, I think. Never wanted to go out, or anything like that."

 "Idiot," he scoffed.  "Anyone should be proud to be seen with you."  He hunkered down next to John, not quite able to make himself look anywhere but the laptop screen, yet.  John was... well, bisexual, then.  Or had Sherlock just assumed he liked women at all?  Had John ever actually talked about women?  He thought frantically but couldn't remember.  John might even be gay.  And Sherlock had entirely missed this.  Maybe the detective thing was a bad idea...

"Appreciate that," John said as his laptop finally let him do something.

Sherlock sat for a bit, watching him click around and set things up.  "You've never mentioned past relationships, actually," he tried to say casually.  "Were the others as unfortunate?"

"Well, not quite as bad as Richard. No one else blackmailed me," he said as he created a new entry. "I've dated a lot. Only a couple serious relationships though. I was with Iris for about a year. Then Karen, for just over a year.  Peter, almost a year. All of them ended...not horribly, though not on good terms."

 Holy shit, Sherlock had a raging bisexual on his hands!  Bisexuals were always so hard to scope out.  It was a real problem.  "He _blackmailed_ you?" he said to cover up his inner chaos. 

"Mhm."

And, actually, why did he even care?  Maybe it was just the surprise.  What did it matter if John were straight or gay or bi or... anything?  Would it change anything?  Was there anything that was actually different if John liked men, anything that would affect their friendship at all?  Surely, Sherlock wasn't so shallow as to be worried that little, bisexual John would _fall in love with him_ or something.  And really, the only thing that could really change if they were both attracted to men was.  The possibility that they could be attracted to each other.

Ridiculous.

"Details?"

"What?" John asked, looking up from the screen. "Oh. He got angry when I tried to break it off to date someone else, and blackmailed me into staying."

 Sherlock cracked a smile.  "You've this whole secret side of you," he said, delighted.  "Being blackmailed!  Sounds like a job for weekend detectives."  Also being bisexual.

"You'll learn it all eventually."

 Sherlock liked this.  He smiled at him.

John smiled back and went back to his typing.

 Sherlock leaned back so that John wouldn't be able to see his face, then made an elaborate one of shock, just to get it out of his system.

John continued typing, oblivious. Once he'd finished a paragraph he paused to look at Sherlock. "I don't know. Could you tell me if it's rubbish?"

 He read it.  It wasn't easy but he read it.  And, he was pleased with the results.  "It's like the start of an adventure story!"

"Really?" he asked, looking at him. "You're sure it's alright?"

 "It's great!" he enthused.  Even if it had been rubbish, he would have done this.  John was being supportive of him, so he would do the same.  He jumped up.  "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective-- I like that name, _consulting_ _detective_ \-- and Doctor John Watson, surgeon, biographer, and blogger!  And your first line!  Sherlock Holmes sees through everyone and everything in minutes!"

John smiled, relaxing slightly. "Okay. Good. Then I'll keep working on it."

 He plopped back down next to him, sitting very close to him on accident.  An hour ago, he would have thought nothing of it.  And nothing had changed, John was John.  But now, though he didn't pull away, he was differently aware of their proximity.  Stupidly.  Because no.

John continued writing.

 Sherlock watched him write, not moving away.

John eventually finished the rough copy and sat back.

 "It's _good_ ," Sherlock said. 

"Thanks, Sherlock," he said, reading it over.

 Sherlock nodded.  He was quiet for a bit.  Then, "What did he blackmail you with?"

"Hm?"

 "Richard."

"Oh." John looked at him. "Well I wasn't quite comfortable with myself yet. Dating Richard certainly didn't help. So he said he'd tell everyone I was propositioning him, including the girl I had wanted to start seeing." He shrugged. "He was popular. He'd have made school very hard for me."

 "And what did he make you do?"

"Stay with him."

 "What did you do?"

"Stayed with him."

 "How did it end, then?"

"He graduated."

 "Ah.  If you were uncomfortable being with a man, it implies he was the first man you dated.  Is that true?"

John nodded.

 Sherlock shook his head.  "Arse."

"Yeah. Not a great first man to date," John agreed.

 "Then this other one.  Peter.  He lasted a while, you were evidently able to overcome your trauma."  Maybe John just didn't date men.  Ever.  Especially not Sherlock.

"Admittedly, I didn't date another guy for a few years."

 "Hard to blame you.  Though to be honest I would think that women were the confusing ones."

"Confusing, yes. But I was less concerned while dating them."

 Sherlock remembered something John had said.  "Your father gave Harry a hard time for being gay.  Is that why you were so worried?"

Sherlock really did remember every little detail. "That was part of it. I did go home in the summer. And Richard had connections so for all I knew..." He shrugged.

 "Does your father know now?"

"No."

 "It seems like everyone in your life is a sod."  Except, hopefully, Sherlock.  Or at least not a sod to _John_.

John shrugged again. "Can't all be good, I suppose."

 "If you want to kill your father," Sherlock said, trying to be cheerful, "I can dress up like a woman, badly, and come home with you for a visit and claim to be your lover."

John snorted. "Oh yes, that would be great. I've not even seen him in years."

 "How have you managed that?  You must teach me how to get out of visiting my family."

"I just don't go."

 "I suppose you don't have Mycroft to force you."

"No, my sister doesn't visit either, so."

 "Mycroft's the British government.  Would you like me to ask him to make your sister visit your father?  Just to stir up some drama?"

"I think I'd rather just ignore them all," John said.

 "Fair enough," he said cheerfully, leaning back in his seat.  A bit further from John.

"Do you not get on with your parents?"

 "Hm?  Surprised I never mentioned it.  My father killed himself, my mother's tolerable but she's difficult.  And if all the other people with my last name suddenly died, I wouldn't mind."

"Cheery."

 "You'd agree with me, if you met them.  Posh and rich and uptight and brilliant and successful, the lot of them."

"Sounds like quite the family reunion."

 He groaned.  "No, I still have two more years until that.  Don't bring it up."

John smiled. "As you wish."

 Sherlock rolled his head over to look at him, and smiled back.  "That's the spirit."

John rolled his eyes, read his entry over once more, then hit post. "There. It's up."

 "The Glorious Scotsman?  Appropriate."

"I thought so."

 "Well," he said loftily, "I'm sure I don't know what Richard was thinking.  You are obviously a talented writer."

John's smile widened. "That is the correct response."

 "I was in a relationship for ten years with the same person," Sherlock joked, "I am skilled at giving the right answer to questions." 

John glanced at him, but Sherlock seemed okay.  He didn't seem upset at the thought of Victor, and he noticed belatedly that he was unbothered.

Sherlock flopped his head back over the sofa.  "That was so fun," he said dreamily about the case.

"I'm sure we'll get another, too."

 "Well we're bound to, eventually!  Right?"

"Right."

 He fished around in his pocket and withdrew several bank notes.  "We were paid in cash," he said.  "So?  Any ideas?"

"For what?"

 He waved the money.

"Well, what do you want to do with it?"

 He smiled, just a bit.  "I may have an idea."

"Oh?"

 "This is 100 pounds."

"Yes."

 "And I happen to know that there's a Doctor Who convention happening this weekend.  There's still one more day of it."

"You want to go?"

 "I do.  Do you?"

"I'd love to go."

 He grinned.  "There's a few hours left of it tonight."

"You want to use the money for that?"

 "What else should we use it for?  We both have good jobs, we don't need to save it.  And Doctor Who is one of the things we do together."

"Well, it's _your_ money," John said. "You don't have to spend any of it on me."

 "How is it mine?" he asked, taken aback.  "You did half the work, _and_ you're letting me stay here."

"You're the one who figured it all out though."

 "I wouldn't have without your medical advice."

"Really?" he asked dubiously.

 He nodded.

"Well if you're sure, then I think it's a great way to use the money," John said.

 "Great!"  He leapt up, dragged John after him.  "We don't look like anyone on the BBC so costumes are out.  So let's just go!"

"Wait, wait," he said, grabbing his wallet.

 He waited.

John stuffed his phone in his pocket. "Right, okay. Let's go, then."

 They went.

* * *

 

Things were going well.  Sherlock was... _happy_.  He felt genuinely happy a majority of the time.  Not blank or bored or acceptably content, but happy.  Certainly he still had his moods, but overall the time was passing quickly and the very weekend after their first case, they had another.  It paid even better.  He had no idea what to do with the money, but it really wasn't necessary.  He had almost no expenses, didn't have to pay for rent or utilities or... he stopped abruptly.  "John."

"Hm?" he asked, glancing up from his laptop.

 "It occurs to me that I've lived here for nearly two months."

"It has been a while," John agreed.

 "So, do you want me to move out?"  It was a genuine question.  He remained socially awkward--  Nothing had changed _that_ much.

"No."

 "Oh.  Ok, that's good.  I don't really want to.  So."  He nodded.

John nodded too.

 "In that case, I'd like to pay half the rent."  He crossed and sat next to him.

John looked back at him. "I hadn't really thought about that," he said honestly.

 "I know.  And I realize that it's not financially necessary, but I'd like to."

John nodded slowly. "If you'd like."

 "Good."  He handed him all of what they'd made that day.

"Makes it so official," John said, taking it.

 He grinned.  "Flatmate."

"Are you fine with just taking the sofa, though?"

 He shrugged.  "I don't sleep much, I don't see the problem."

"You're sure?"

 "Mhm."  He smirked.  "Unless you're saying you want to share your bed," he said, mock-innocent.

"Well, you _are_ fairly attractive."

 He pretended to flip his hair.  "So true."

"So _modest_."

 "Also true." 

"Suppose I can't blame you," John said in a long-suffering voice.  "Brilliant, gorgeous, financially stable... a dream come true, frankly."

"So what you're saying is, we need to start sharing your bed," Sherlock pretended to say seriously.

John nodded.  "Possibly we should also start having wild sex in it.  Since, you know, we'll be in a bed anyway."

"It does tend to be good, in a bed."

"I like it better against a wall," John said thoughtfully.

Alright!  So.  Sherlock jumped to his feet.  He patted John firmly on the back.  "Good thought, we'll do that later.  For now, though, I have lived two months without a laptop, somehow, and I need to fix that."

"Oh, the horror."

"I'll be back in an hour."

"I'll be here."

 He left with a girly wave and another hair flip, and he heard John's laughter ringing down the hall after him, making him almost giddy.

That was another thing that had been happening a lot, lately. 


	6. Chapter 6

They'd got another case, and this was starting to turn into a bit of a business for them.

 Sherlock, of course, was ecstatic.  He hadn't even know this was his dream until he'd done it, but it was.  It so, so was.  He felt brilliant, in control, and he was having a great time.  He had a flat (a horrible little flat), a flatmate, a job he loved, and a hobby he adored.  Things were perfect, and he felt that way right up until he saw their client's face.  Or, more accurately, until he saw John's face in reaction to their client.

"Is that _John Watson_?" the man asked, stepping closer. "It is! I've not seen you since I graduated!"

John smiled tightly. "Richard. Been a while."

 Sherlock looked sharply at John with an expression that clearly said ' _that_ Richard?'

"It has, hasn't it?" Richard asked, smiling brightly at him. He pointedly looked him up and down. "You look good."

"Thanks," John said simply.

 Sherlock stiffened.   The look Richard was giving John was disgusting.

"What have you been up to since I left?"  Richard acted as if Sherlock wasn't there.

"School. Became a doctor." He answered the questions with the barest amount of information possible.

 Sherlock pointedly took a step closer to John's side.

Richard glanced at him. "And who is this?"

 "His husband," Sherlock said, putting on a big, gracious smile and holding out his hand to shake.  "Richard, was it?  You seem to know John.  Funny, he's never said a word about you."  His smile disappeared.  "Whatever you did, it must not have been memorable for him.  Enjoy your sister going to prison for statutory rape."  He seized John's hand, spun around, and marched away.

John didn't look back, though he did glance up at Sherlock. "You didn't have to do that," he said.

 He snorted.  He also hadn't let go.

John hadn't either. "He could have got you more cases."

 "He can also go die in a hole," Sherlock suggested.

"It was years ago," John said, though he was smiling a bit.

 "Ok, then his grave doesn't have to be so shallow that his corpse can be eaten by wild dogs."

His smile widened, and he squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Thanks."

Sherlock slowed, just a little, and glanced at him.  "My pleasure."

They were still walking. Neither of them had let go.

 Eventually, the sidewalk got a bit too crowded and they had to split.  That was the first moment Sherlock realized he'd still been holding John's hand.  Then they passed the person who had been the reason they'd had to let go, and when they were again side by side, Sherlock hesitated.

John felt a sort of loss when he lost Sherlock's hand. It didn't particularly surprise him. He liked spending time with Sherlock, and he was attractive. They were good friends, and Sherlock was amazing.  He'd realized that his feelings could possibly start to exceed friendship, a little... Not that he'd try anything. Sherlock had only broken up with Victor a few months ago.

Sherlock hesitated, and hesitated, and then, just a little, just slightly, he brushed the back of John's hand with his own.

John looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Was Sherlock trying something, or had his hand just slipped? Casually, he turned his hand a bit so his fingers brushed Sherlock's.

 Sherlock's breath caught and he ever so slightly curled his fingers against John's.

Well _that_ had certainly been intentional. John copied the action with his own fingers.

 Sherlock's heart was racing, but he tried to stay cool on the outside.  Touching John was... it was a lot.  He slipped their fingers together about halfway.

He was practically holding Sherlock's hand.  He couldn't believe he was practically holding Sherlock's hand.  Slowly, worried that he was reading something wrong, he tightened his grip until they were holding hands properly.

 He couldn't believe John wanted to hold his hand.  Also, he was pretty sure he was twelve years old, for being so excited by it.  It was hardly the first time either one of them had held hands with someone.  Just to make sure there was no confusion, he squeezed slightly.

John squeezed back.

 Right.  Good.  Then this wasn't an accident.  And for right now, he wasn't going to obsess over it, and what it might mean.  He was going to change the subject.  Or, start a subject.  "So are you going to write up this fascinating case?" Sherlock joked.

"Oh yes, write about how my ex from Uni was our client, so we didn't take it? Not sure how it would make us look," he said lightly.

 "Why?  Brilliant case, all around."  He nodded as if this were very profound.

"Oh, of course."

 He hesitated a bit.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "I didn't know it was _that_ Richard.  Richard Small."

"It's fine," John said.

 "Did you see his face as we walked away?"

"I wasn't looking."

 "Ah.  He was shocked and more than a little jealous.  Evidently he thinks he's the only man in the world you could ever be in a relationship with."

"He would."

 "I observed that he's single and hasn't got laid in at least three years."

"You're making that up."

 "No ring, no sign of anyone who feeds him up or buys him things he doesn't like but is obligated to wear.  And I can deduce the three years by the way he looked at you.  That, and his shoes, obviously."

"I can't imagine him going that long without seducing someone," John mused.

 "He's losing his charm.  Three years ago was a one-off, and before _that_ he hadn't bedded anyone in _four_ years."

John smiled and leaned a bit closer so their shoulders brushed. "I think you're just saying that to make me smile."

 Sherlock wasn't able to breathe right away.  When he could, though, he said, "Well, that bit I made up."

"To make me smile."

 "Of course."

His smile widened.

 John kept smiling wider and wider.  Sherlock liked it, instantly wanting more of it.  "I like when you smile," he said, hoping John would smile more.

He did, just a bit. "Do you?"

 This was going well.  "Yes."

"I like when you smile too."

He smiled because John liked it.  "Well, you make me."

"Good."

 Sherlock didn't know what this was, or what was happening, but he liked it.  He brushed his thumb lightly over the back of John's hand.

John liked that. He really, really liked holding Sherlock's hand.

 John wasn't pulling away, so Sherlock kept doing it as they walked back to their flat.

John pressed a bit closer as they walked.

 He didn't know what any of this meant, so he just did what he wanted to do: he pressed closer to John as well.

Eventually they reached their flat. John dug his keys out of his pocket without releasing Sherlock's hand.

 Part of him wanted to ask, but the rest of him was afraid to point it out.  John was literally his only friend in the world- maybe this was something John did with his friends?  No, that didn't even make sense.  But maybe he was just trying not to embarrass Sherlock.  Or make Sherlock feel rejected, since he'd just had a breakup.

John turned.  Sherlock was just standing in the doorway so he tugged on his hand.  It snapped Sherlock out of it and followed him.

Okay. They were inside.

Right, so they were inside.

John looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at John.

John didn't let go.

Sherlock didn't let go either.

"So."

 "So."

"We're holding hands."

 "And we have been.  For a while."

John nodded.

 "What do you think of that?"

"It's nice."

 "I'm enjoying it as well."

"We could do it more."

 "Yes.  We could do that."

John nodded again.

 "John?"

"Yes?"

 "I think," he said slowly, "that you are the most beautiful human being I have ever met."  He licked his lips then watched him for a reaction.  Because truly, it didn't have to be sexual, or romantic.  He was more and more convinced every day that he could be with John forever, just as flatmates and friends and coworkers, and be transcendently happy.  But, he also knew that he could fall in love with him.  Probably, he was in love with him already, but just couldn't tell because it didn't hurt.

No one had said something so romantic or with such sincerity to him before, and he'd dated rather a lot. And this was Sherlock, someone he wasn't even with. But someone he cared about. A lot about. Someone he wanted to make happy. Someone who made his life a lot better. "Really?" he asked, not quite sure he could even believe that.

 "You," Sherlock said, still slowly, to make sure every word was precise and exactly what he meant, "are complex."  He nodded, mostly to himself.  "You have many, many different layers, but somehow you're consistent, at the same time.  You are kind but not too nice, and you... understand... things.  You understand giving up everything on the chance that there might be something better."  He licked his lips for what was possibly the millionth time.  "You're funny, and you smile and laugh, and when you get excited about something you raise your voice.  Entirely on accident.  And your face lights up.  And it's- everything about you- is beautiful.  The way you... move.  The way you think, the way you see the world.  Like I do.  But still different.  The way you talk.  The way you eat."  He let go of John's hand and ran his own through his hair.  "I could fall in love with you.  But, if you'd like, I could also just be the best friend you've ever had."

John stood there in stunned silence for several moments. "Wow," he said finally.

 "So."  He nodded.  "There it is."

"I'd like not being friends."

 He looked at him steadily.  "Take care with what you say.  You are my only friend in the world.  For my sake, this can't be something you take casually."

"I like holding your hand," he said, turning to face him fully. "I like being close to you. I like the idea of you sharing my bed. Or the idea of you kissing me. You saw how bored I was when I met you. Look at me now and deduce."

 Slowly, Sherlock slid his hand up John's arm.  His other gently cupped John's face.  He paused there.

John pressed closer into the touch, meeting Sherlock's eyes.

 Softly, sweetly, Sherlock leaned in and kissed him.

John titled his head to meet him. The kiss was slow, and sweet, and lovely. One of the loveliest kisses John could remember having.

 Sherlock had had many kisses, but this was, without a doubt, the most breathtaking.  When it concluded, he pulled back and gazed at John, stunned.  He didn't take his hand off his face.

John watched him for several moments then leaned in and kissed him again.

 If Sherlock had thought that kiss was amazing, then this one was devastating.  It left him shaking.  John pulled away, slowly.  He couldn't think of a single thing to say.  So, he drew him back in for yet another kiss.

This time, one of John's hands fell to settle on Sherlock's hip, the other on his shoulder.  In this kiss, Sherlock let John take control, to see where he would take him.  John slowly tugged Sherlock in closer, losing himself completely to Sherlock's lips.

 He went with no hesitation, his body melting against John's.  He couldn't believe it could feel like this.  It had never felt like this with Victor, even before the drugs.  Like they fit together, like something that had been missing wasn't, anymore.

Eventually he pulled back, watching Sherlock, just a bit dazed. Kissing had never left him dazed before.

 He gazed back at him, the exact same way.  He brushed his thumb over John's cheekbone.

John's lips lifted at the action.

 As it always did, John's smile made him smile back.

"The kissing is nice too."

 "I... yes."

"And the touching."

 He touched his face softly in response to that.  "Yes."

"More of it maybe."

 "This moment, or in general?"

"Both."

 He moved the hand that had been on John's arm up to his face, and ran his fingers lightly over his skin, along the bones.  His concentration was complete.  He wanted to memorize every inch of John, because John had asked him to touch him.  John's heart jumped at the touch, and it was completely natural to him to lean into it.

 He was glad John had chosen the not-just-friends option, because the way John responded to his touch- actually responded, pressed in like it was the sweetest thing he'd ever felt, like he wanted to always be touching Sherlock--  made his heart throb.  He was already in love.  Well, of course he was.

"I think more kissing too," John suggested softly.

Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into a tight embrace, kissing him deeply, with passion.  In love.  _In love_?  He didn't remember it feeling so good.

To think, he'd sat in the flat for two months with Sherlock and not kissed him. Or touched him. Laughable. He wondered how long he could have had this.  Sherlock broke the kiss, but he didn't pull away.  "It's never felt like this," he murmured against his lips.

"Hasn't," he agreed.

 He kissed him again, and again.  "You fit.  Fit."  John's arms around Sherlock tightened. He didn't want to stop kissing him.  Sherlock got the message and kissed him over and over.  John felt shaky. He'd never felt this way just from kissing before. He backed them up towards the sofa and sat, tugging Sherlock with him.

 Sherlock threaded his fingers into John's hair and went along with him, landing half on his lap and half on the sofa.  He could hear little but the pounding of his heart.

He was too far away. John pulled Sherlock in closer.

 At this, Sherlock shifted so that he straddled John's lap.  Closer was good.  Closer was amazing, actually.  He pressed as close as he could.

Yes, better. John gave a low hum in approval at this.

 Sherlock's fingers tightened in John's hair reflexively.  He'd forgotten that people made sounds when they touched and kissed.  John gave another hum of approval, a bit louder and Sherlock let out a small sigh, as his hands began to wander.  He touched John's shoulders, his sides, his chest.  He loved every inch of him, already.  John's breathing had picked up slightly. He let his hands trail down Sherlock's back.

John's fingers slipped along the edge of Sherlock's shirt, barely brushing his skin.

 The slight brush made his muscles leap, and he pressed closer to the touch.  John's fingers rested against skin more surely. Sherlock groaned, startling himself.  It had been ages since there had been groaning at just the touching stage.  John's hands tightened, and he groaned again, with more feeling, and, much less shyly, started to work at the buttons of John's shirt.

The fingers on the buttons was good. John was very pleased with this new development.  Accordingly, Sherlock undid the rest of the buttons, spreading his hands over John's bare chest, under the shirt.  John pressed closer, wanting to feel more of those hands, more of Sherlock everywhere.   They moved to his sides and up, to his underarms to encourage the removal of the shirt.  John helped get it off, tossing it off the back of the sofa.

Sherlock looked, then dropped his head to kiss the newly exposed skin.  It was John who let out a low moan this time, shifting to give Sherlock more space to explore.  Sherlock shifted with him, taking advantage of the additional space, catching John's hand and placing them on his own chest.  "Mine too," he whispered before dipping back down to lick and nip along John's collarbone.

John sucked in a sharp breath, hands working unsteadily on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

 Sherlock paused to place his hands over John's.  "Relax," he murmured.

"Am relaxed," he said. "As much as I can be with your mouth on me."

 He chuckled, low.  "Flattering.  But we're too vertical."

John twisted his body to the side, arms hooking around Sherlock's neck and dragging him down on top of him. "Better?" he asked.

 He groaned quite loudly.  " _Yes_ , this is better."  He kissed John's lips, along his jaw, to his throat.

John arched up into Sherlock, arms tightening as Sherlock's lips met his neck.  He shivered and cried out softly.

 "Oh, so your neck," Sherlock laughed, hips jerking a bit when John arched hard up into him.  "Noted."

"God.  Keep doing that."

 "If that's what you want."  He devoted the next ten minutes entirely to consuming every inch of John's neck with lips, teeth, and tongue.  John was breathing heavily by the time Sherlock pulled away, hard and trying not to rock up against Sherlock to produce more friction.  Sherlock looked down at him, pleased, incredibly aroused, and more than a little smug.  "Ten minutes ago, I was going to ask you if you'd rather have me, or be had."

"So you're not going to ask anymore?" John asked.

 He surveyed the shuddering man beneath him.  "I believe I can deduce."

"Good at that," John agreed.

 His fingers brushed lightly over John's trouser button.  "So, you'd obviously like to have me."  He smirked.

John looked pointedly down at Sherlock's hand, which hadn't moved beyond the light brushing. "I do get the feeling that we will be doing both, and often." His voice, while still unsteady, had gained a trace of strength after Sherlock had moved away from his neck.

 He thumbed the button off.  "But right now," he said, kissing the skin above John's trouser line, feeling something change as he did.  He did want to ask.  "For our first time together.  Which do you want?"

Having Sherlock. Sherlock having him. To loom over him and take him apart, or let Sherlock continue taking him apart.

 Sherlock shifted up to level with him and kissed him.  "Anything you want, John."

John kept him close, kissing him again and again. "Then you. Have me."

 He returned every kiss as enthusiastically as it was given, then shifted back down John's body.  "You've done this before, right?" he asked.  Just to make sure.

"Yes," he said, hand drifting through Sherlock's hair as he went.

Sherlock's eyes drooped.

"You stopped moving," John complained.

 "Mmm..."

"Sherlock."

 "Mm?"

John let his hand fall back to the sofa. "Moving. You. Stopped."

 He blinked several times.  "I.  Ok.  Sorry.  Just, that felt really good."  He forced his hands to move again, running down John's thighs and towards his center.

" _Good_ , or just...good?" he asked.

 "Sweet and... good."  He paused.  "Do you have anything?"

"Any what?"

 "Lube.  Condoms, possibly."

"Oh," he said. Obviously that's what he'd meant. "My room."

 He ran his hands on the underside of John's thighs, pulling them slightly upward.  He brushed his finger over John's entrance.  "Right.  Your room."

"R-right."

 "So we should..."

"Right," he said again.

 He touched again.  "Have you... a lot of experience with this...?"

"Some," he said, trying to force his voice into something put-together.

 "Just.  Your room.  It's far."  Then, somehow, a thought cut through everything.  He disentangled himself from John and stood.  He held out a hand to him.  "Come."

It took a moment for John to figure out what had happened but he eventually managed and stood, taking his hand.

 "I lost my virginity in an alley, while high, with spit as lubrication," he said simply.  He kissed John's fingers, drawing him towards John's room.  "Let's do this properly."

John followed easily.

 Once in the room, he rid himself of his trousers and his pants and his socks.  He knelt down in front of John, hands tracing down the sides of his legs until they met his socked feet.  He gently assisted him with that removal as well, and when he stood, they were both bare.  He wrapped his arms firmly around John, and backed him towards the bed.

John went willingly, sitting back on it as soon as his knees met the mattress.

 Sherlock tipped him back, placing his head gently on his pillow, then lowered himself onto him, finding his lips as he did.

They kissed for a while, and eventually John reached out, blindly as he didn't want to stop kissing Sherlock for a moment, to open his bedside table drawer. He withdrew lube and condoms, dropping them messily on top of the table.

 Sherlock hummed in approval.  Also blindly, he found the necessary objects and brought them closer.  Using the lube, warming it first between his hands, he prepared John slowly.  Probably more slowly than John would have wanted, but like Sherlock had said they were going to do it properly.  With the respect Sherlock felt for him.  Eventually, slow as it was, he finished, and made the necessary arrangements on himself.  Then, he lined himself up, looking up through his hair at John.

John was more than ready. He nodded.

 Slowly, Sherlock pressed into him.

John breathed in slowly and forced himself to relax. It had been a while since he'd done this, but Sherlock was being careful, and it didn't take long to adjust to the sensation.   When John nodded, Sherlock proceeded to slide in the rest of the way, until he'd bottomed out.  Then, making sure not to move their lower bodies, Sherlock crawled up John's torso to kiss his lips.  He'd missed his lips.

John smiled into the kiss, breaking away only to tell Sherlock to move.

 Stroking over John's hair, touching his face softly, hands brushing gently down his body, Sherlock began to move.

It didn't take long for John to shift to meet his thrusts, arms going around Sherlock's back and holding on tightly.

 It felt... amazing.  Him, over John, feeling him in the most intimate way possible.  John, clinging to him, tight, bearing down to meet his movements as if he couldn't have Sherlock deep enough.  Their bodies sliding against each other with sweat.  It was so different.  It was a million times better, and Sherlock knew with a strange certainty that this was what he'd wanted.  This was the better thing that was out there.  The doctor he gave everything up for, and hadn't even known he was doing it.  He forced his eyes, which had slipped closed, to open, and gazed at John beneath him as he thrust into him, firmly and steadily.

Sherlock was incredible. Not just this, the sex, but the way he looked at him. No one had ever looked at John like that before. No one had treated him so- His train of thought cut off abruptly when Sherlock brushed his prostate, and he arched up, arms somehow tightening around Sherlock as he moaned.

 Finally, he'd found it.  Sherlock kept that angle and increased his speed and forcefulness.

"God, Sherlock." He was torn between pressing up into Sherlock's body or falling back on the bed to let Sherlock handle everything.

 "I'll take care of you," he breathed, nearly dizzy from the sounds and expressions John was making.  John was so responsive, he'd never seen anything like it.  "What you were thinking.  The second thing."

"You c-can read minds, _now_ ," he demanded breathlessly.

 "Just yours."  He shifted John around, tilting his lower body up so that he could drive deeper into John and still brush his prostate.

"Sweet talker." A particularly hard thrust made him moan, hips lifting slightly off the bed.

 Seeing that, Sherlock moved harder.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_." Sherlock knew just what to do. All John could do was hold on, move with him, and try to keep breathing.

Correctly taking this as a good sign, Sherlock kept it up at exactly that angle and pace.  "Beautiful man," he panted.

John wasn't sure how capable of words he was at the moment so said nothing, simply getting lost in Sherlock's movements.

 "Stunning, amazing, remarkable, singular John," he praised, kissing his chest.  "Lovely, um, s-stunning, wait I..."

"You." It was all he could manage.

 Sherlock heard it anyway.  "Ready?" he asked, breathing hard.

"God yes."

 He seized John's cock and aggressively pumped it in time with his thrusts.  He tried to think of more words of praise, but there wasn't enough blood in his brain.  So he simply latched onto John's neck.

It was too much. Sherlock inside him, Sherlock's hand on him, Sherlock's lips and teeth and tongue all working on his neck...it took only another minute before he was coming, gasping Sherlock's name and arching up against him.

 It had been years since anyone had called his name as they came, and it snapped Sherlock in half-- he came the moment the word left John's lips, slamming his own lips down onto John's and coming buried inside him, clutching him and breathing his name as well.

It took quite a while before John was even aware of where he was. He'd not had sex that good in a long time...if ever. And to think earlier that day he'd not thought being with Sherlock was even possible.

 Slowly, Sherlock pulled out of him, removing and tying off the condom before settling in very close to John.

John turned towards Sherlock, tired and happy, seeking his body heat.

Sherlock held out his arms to him, smiling a small but genuine smile.

John smiled back and scooted in.

"You're amazing," Sherlock said to his hair.

His smile widened. "Am I?"

 "You are.  Absolutely are."

"Why is that?"

 Sherlock groaned.  "Ask me tomorrow."

"I will," John said, nodding seriously.

 "Good.  Because if you _don't_ mind, I just had incredibly excellent sex and I would like to enjoy the post-orgasmic bliss with the man I came in."

"I suppose that's acceptable," John agreed, kissing his jaw.

 He chuckled tiredly.

 John settled back down. "I'm glad I met you," John said, pausing to look into Sherlock's eyes.

 He reached up to touch his face lightly.  "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

 John smiled. "You really think so?"

 "I do."

 John lowered again to kiss him sweetly. "We've not known each other that long but you're...really important to me."

 Sherlock moved the hand backwards and into John's hair to gaze at him, stroking lightly.  "I know what you mean."

 "I'm really glad you're with me."

 "Me too."  He brushed a damp lock of hair out of John's eye.

 John pressed closer to Sherlock's touch, eyes flickering closed for a moment.

 Sherlock smiled at that.

 John turned his head and kissed Sherlock's fingers.

 "Remember when I said I could fall in love with you?" Sherlock asked, overwhelmed with warmth at the gentle kiss.

 "Mhm."

 "Would that be okay?  If I did?"

 John gazed at him. It was fast. Very fast. But he'd never felt this way about someone before, so what did that really matter? "Yes."

 He closed his eyes.  "Good."

 John leaned down and kissed him tenderly. "And what if I fell in love with you?"

 "I'd leap out of this bed and storm away," he said, rolling his eyes and tightening his grip around John's waist.

 John pouted at him. "You're supposed to give me a sweet answer."

"...Only to storm back into the room and demand why you didn't tell me earlier, because I'd been waiting for you my whole life."

 "Much better," John praised.

 "So glad you approve."  He pulled him down to kiss him again.

 "It's not too fast?" he asked against his lips.

 "Does it matter?"

 "Not to me."

 "Nor to me," he assured him.

 "Then," John said, pulling back a bit so he could meet Sherlock's eyes, "I do. Love you."

 It had been ages since he'd heard those words and felt something, and it would have been unwelcome except that this was John.  Already the best friend he'd ever had.  Already the best lover he'd ever had, too.  Someone he could very easily share the detective-ing with.  Who liked him the way he was, and let him be excited or bored.  Sherlock looked up at him, unwavering.  "I love you too."

 "You didn't do the storming out thing," John teased, but he was grinning as he leaned in and kissed Sherlock.

 "Well then let go of me, but I was rather hoping you would flip me over and we'd go again in about 23 minutes..."

 John considered this.

 Sherlock waited patiently.

With a mighty heave, John flipped them.  "Suppose we could just have sex," John decided.

 Sherlock pulled him down, laughing, and they did.


End file.
